


Resolution

by lifeonmars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 12DaysofMoony, First Kiss, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, New Year's Resolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe one resolution isn't a bad idea."</p><p>New Year’s-related unashamed fluff with a bit of case geekery on the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Разрешение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407357) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> This one's for a fandom graphic artist extraordinaire. Hope you enjoy, Moony :)
> 
> Many thanks to Mydwynter and HiddenLacuna for the beta work!

The dead man's hand is curled around a crumpled piece of paper. In John Watson's line of work, this is not unusual.

"Come look at this, Sherlock," John says to the tall shadow prowling the perimeter of the room, a cluttered, chilly Soho loft cordoned off from the world by a team of Lestrade's investigators. The shadow turns, and the dark form of Sherlock Holmes swirls and reappears at John's side, now more substance than shadow. His pale, deft hand pries dead fingers from their prize.

"Rigor's set in about half an hour ago, from the looks of it," John mutters, more for his own benefit than Sherlock's.

"Suffocated."

"Yeah." John shifts his weight, leaning forward to peer at the marks visible on one side of the corpse's neck, the obvious petechial hemorrhaging, the bloodied slash on his forehead. "With a plastic bag, most likely. Someone gave him a good whack to the head first, though."

"Disposed of the bag in the kitchen trash. Along with the butcher's twine used to tie it shut."

"Any prints?"

"Killer wore gloves. From the placement of the marks on the bag, it's likely he was over six feet tall, going by the spread of his fingers and the size of his hands." Sherlock is unfolding the crumpled paper; it's a half-sheet of lined A4, torn roughly along one edge. A series of numbers are written neatly on it in blue biro.

John squints, leans in to read; his knees are stiff from squatting down, and his lower back twinges testily. He winces, reflexively reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself. "Sorry."

Sherlock's attention doesn't waver from the line of numbers, but he rumbles an acknowledgement. "All right?"

"Getting old," John mutters.

Sherlock's eyes flick sideways, an appraising glance. His mouth quirks. "I'll bring the cane next time."

"The hell you will."

Their eyes meet; a quick flash of warmth. John's heart skips. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, and unexpectedly, a long arm slides around John's waist. "Up with you, then," Sherlock says, paper still in hand, and he straightens, pulling John up with him.

For someone who looks as if he last ate a good meal before the turn of the century, Sherlock is surprisingly strong and steady. His coat, as always, smells comfortingly of Baker Street. Almost automatically, John's arm grips Sherlock's waist; with the corpse at their feet, they lean into each other for an odd half-second.

"Thanks," John says, reclaiming his balance. He feels Sherlock's deep chuckle under his fingers, beneath his heavy coat.

He finds his fingers want to stay where they are. This is inconvenient. This has been happening often, of late; John attributes it to their easy camaraderie, the deep groove of friendship. His body migrates toward Sherlock's, if given the choice. A magnetic pull of familiarity, that's all it must be.

"Six numbers," Sherlock says, but his hand is lingering as well, and it might be John's imagination, but his fingers may give John's side a faint, reflexive squeeze as they depart.

"1920, 1200, 1280, 1024, 1024, 768. Six numbers, all even. One repeat. Street numbers? Neighbouring flats?"

"No," Sherlock says, and suddenly he's glancing around, eyes scanning. "No. They're pairs of numbers. Screen resolutions."

"Screen resolutions?" Sherlock has stepped away, a blur of motion.

"Obvious. Now, the question is, why? Ah." Sherlock is shifting papers on a desk against the window to reveal a slick silver laptop underneath. "Arthur Pinner was an expert on computer graphics. He had information that made him a target. He knew why these numbers were significant; they’re a code, a key to something. He's dead because of it."

Sherlock opens the laptop; it whirs to life, screen brightening the dim flat. "Password protected." He calls over his shoulder. "Inspector, I need to borrow something. Won't be long."

* * *

Sherlock's face is lit by the light of the laptop screen; he's hunched at the sitting room table, the flat illuminated with fairy lights they’ve been too busy to take down since the holiday earlier in the week. This case has arrived on their doorstep like a belated Christmas gift for Sherlock, who’s glowing as if he were six years old and just given a train set.

"Pinner's not daft, that much is clear," Sherlock says as the kettle clicks off. "His password was harder to guess than most."

John pours water into their mugs, raises an eyebrow. "You've done it?"

"Impressively difficult," Sherlock says, his expression edging toward a grin. "Shame he's dead. I would have liked to chat with him."

"That _is_ a shame." John spoons sugar into Sherlock's mug, adds milk to both. "Don't think I've ever heard you say that. Pinner's a lucky man."

John is halfway across the room with their mugs before he realises that his comment was a bit more fawning than he'd intended. He sets down Sherlock's tea; Sherlock looks up at him, eyes crinkled disarmingly at the corners. "Don't worry," Sherlock says, deep voice tinged with pleasure. "I prefer your company to that of a corpse."

"Do you?" John settles into his armchair. “Some days I’m not so sure.”

“Always.”

John smiles into his mug of tea; warmth spreads through him that has nothing to do with the hot cup in his hands.

“Oh,” Sherlock says suddenly, and John looks up; Sherlock is grinning broadly, unreservedly, staring at the screen. “I think — yes. Oh, yes. This is _brilliant._ Amazing. John —”

But John is already on his feet, tea forgotten as he braces himself against Sherlock’s chair, leaning in eagerly to look at the laptop.

"The last three files edited on this machine are vector graphics," Sherlock says, index finger sliding deftly across the trackpad. "Pinner was paid to encode something. He's hidden it in these graphics files; the paper in his hand was the key. I believe he was killed for his refusal to explain the code. Watch."

Sherlock double-clicks a file; it's an image, black lines and white space. Two complex, nearly star-like objects, round at the edges, lines radiating from their centres.

"That could be anything," John says.

"Exactly. A company logo, or just a geometric design. Now look.”

Sherlock right-clicks the screen and quickly scrolls through a menu. The screen flickers, then warps, the window enlarging. But something odd has happened. Wavering lines are hovering on the graphic, interference patterns shifting across the two shapes. John peers at it.

"What did you do?"

"Changed the resolution. 1920 by 1200. And, anti-aliasing — off. What can you see?"

"A mess." The lines have the illusion of motion, almost headache-inducing. John squints. Then, abruptly, a pattern emerges at the edges of the star: something recognizable. "Wait. A number," he whispers. "What is this?"

"Moiré patterns, John. Genius."

"It's a two," John says, pointing. The left star shape has a distinct swirl, a pattern of darker lines forming a visible numeral. "And on the right, in that shape. A six. Two and six. 26?" He stares. "Are you going to tell me what I'm looking at?"

"I told you, John. Moiré patterns. The interference pattern created when lines overlap under certain visual circumstances; it sometimes shows up on television screens, or in photographs. Usually accidental." Sherlock grins at the screen. "In this case, however, it seems our man Pinner discovered how to use Moiré patterns quite deliberately. He designed these graphics in order to conceal numerals: a nearly impossible code to crack. I imagine he was paid handsomely for these designs. Each graphic has a numeral concealed within it that can only be seen by viewing the Moiré patterns created at a specific resolution. The number here is formed when we view this graphic in the first resolution on Pinner's list: 1900 by 1200. I imagine we'll find a similar set of numerals concealed in the other two graphics; they’ll be visible only in the other two resolutions listed on the paper."

Sherlock's finger skates across the trackpad and he clicks; a second image opens, this time, two strikingly three-dimensional faces comprised of thin black lines and white space. "Lovely," he murmurs. With another click, the image warps, then shimmers oddly, revealing a distinct pattern.

"53," John says, breathless. "Brilliant, Sherlock. Absolutely brilliant. My God."

"He was, wasn't he?"

John, somewhere between distracted and awestruck, nudges Sherlock's shoulder. "No, git. You."

Sherlock gives a contented hum. "Ah. True."

It might be overwhelming temptation, or the glee of discovery; whatever the reason, John's hand threads through Sherlock's thick curls before he can stop it. He rubs Sherlock's head almost teasingly.

It feels unexpectedly wonderful.

"And the last," Sherlock says triumphantly. "Here. Viewing this graphic at 1024 by 768, we get the number... 28."

"26, 53, 28," John repeats. "A combination."

"Safety box combination," Sherlock says, almost simultaneously. He reaches for his mobile, taps at the screen; Lestrade's number. John blinks, looks away from the laptop; the flat swims into focus, and he's suddenly aware that his hand is still tangled in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock lifts the phone to his ear; strangely, he makes no move to dislodge John's hand.

"It’s me," Sherlock says intently, leaning back into John's touch, and is this normal? Is this what friends do? John pulls his hand back; gives Sherlock's shoulder a quick squeeze. What friends do, perhaps. Best friends, really. "We've got the information Pinner's murderer was looking for. Safety box combination. Arrest the manager; your team found a locked safety box in his flat."

We've got it. We? Sherlock gives John too much credit.

He often does.

John finishes his tea to the sound of Sherlock's resonant voice, exclaiming, detailing numbers and patterns as Sherlock paces the length of the flat, phone to his ear. The evening spreads out before them, satisfying, complete: a trip to the Yard, and paperwork. If he can cajole Sherlock into it, they'll stop for a pint on the way home. Maybe two. It is, after all, what friends do after they crack a case.

The back of Sherlock's head is tousled; John can still feel the silky curls under his fingers. That strange warmth spreads through him once more.

Maybe three pints.

* * *

It turns out to be three pints, a curry, a pudding, and an indulgently expensive glass of Scotch, all of which disappear largely due to the fact that Sherlock actually consumes an equal share right alongside John.

They walk back to Baker Street, unhurried, content; this is Sherlock as no one else sees him. John finds he's probably a bit too pleased about this, but doesn't much care.

Tomorrow night is New Year's Eve; John had nearly forgotten, until Lestrade wished them both a Happy New Year. "Got plans?" he'd said, shuffling papers.

"Not really," John had said, as Sherlock paced in the hallway. "Think we'll just have a night in."

Greg had smiled, something unspoken in the corners of his eyes. "Sounds lovely. Thanks again for Christmas, by the way."

John wondered what it was, that gleam, that errant thought.

Now, though, his own thoughts are pleasantly blurred, warm and buoyant and light. Sherlock is saying something about gloves, perhaps — brands of gloves? Smudges left by genuine leather? John hums appreciatively; his shoulder bumps against Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock nudges back. "You're not listening."

"It was good Scotch," John admits. The stoop of 221B is in view; they hasten toward it as they both dissolve into ragged giggles. John's legs feel suddenly heavy as they shuffle up the stairs, as if gravity is working a bit more actively than usual. Or perhaps it's the pudding.

Upstairs, Sherlock sheds his coat, toes off his shoes, sprawls across the couch as John stokes the fire.

"More Scotch in the cupboard," he intones, giving John a lazy, impish smile.

"Is that a statement or a request?"

"Both."

John laughs; he wanders into the kitchen, opens the cabinet where they keep their glasses. "One thing I don't mind about Harry's drinking: she gives excellent gifts." He emerges in a few minutes with two identical glasses, half-full of amber liquid; Sherlock sits up a bit, limbs loose and fluid, and pats the seat next to him.

"Telly?" John says, settling in, offering Sherlock a glass. Their fingers brush against each other.

"Something atrocious should be on at this hour," Sherlock says, leaning back, socked feet up on the coffee table. "Something with shouting."

"You want shouting?"

"Mmm." Sherlock sips his drink.

"I can shout for a bit if you'd like." John fiddles with the remote. The buttons seem smaller than usual.

"Lovely offer," Sherlock chuckles. John finally finds the power button; the television springs to life, but lacks sound. This proves to be a greater challenge. John fumbles for a few moments, then growls and tosses the remote in frustration. He intends for it to hit the coffee table; it's a spectacular miss.

"I didn't much like that lamp anyway," Sherlock says, after both of them have managed to stop laughing. Once he can breathe again, John settles back against the couch next to him, listening contentedly to Sherlock’s deep, subsiding giggles. Sherlock's head isn't far from his own; this is just how they are, how they seem to fit. What friends do, most likely.

"New Year's Eve tomorrow," John says. "I'd forgotten. Greg reminded me."

"Over-rated holiday."

“I bet you're not one for making resolutions," John says, glancing over, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall, rhythmic, reassuring.

"Pointless," Sherlock says, shifting, his shoulders slipping closer to John's. "Why wait for one particular day of the year to resolve to improve something? Seems utterly inefficient. Why not just do it when you think of it?"

"A fresh start. Symbolic."

"Tedious."

"Knew you'd say that."

"Predictable, am I? What about you, then?" Sherlock's shoulder nudges John's. "Making your list for the new year?"

"I should." John sits up, sets down his drink. The flat is lovely, all fairy lights and firelight. "Dunno. Write more. Take up jogging so I can keep up with you. The usual."

"You always keep up with me."

There's a note in Sherlock's voice that quickens John's breath, even as the world settles into a dreamy blur. He turns to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's expression is open, unguarded. Shockingly so.

The wry retort half-formed on John's tongue dissolves at the look on Sherlock's face. "I hope so," John says huskily, instead.

"One resolution," Sherlock says, which doesn't make much sense, but then again, he's sitting up now, their shoulders nearly touching, and this doesn't make much sense either. "Maybe one resolution isn't a bad idea."

John swallows. Their knees bump together. "What is it?"

Sherlock's answer is a short intake of breath, a wavering hesitation; and then, a sweet, shocking crush of lips to John's.

John's eyes fly open and then closed; he is too stunned to breathe. Sherlock is kissing him. The words have no meaning; and then, they connect, spark a chain of warmth that spirals through him, and he gives a sharp, breathless laugh against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock nearly pulls back, but John's hands are alive now, threading into Sherlock's curls, where they have wanted to be all this time, for far too long, really. Sherlock shudders, and suddenly they are a breathless, uncoordinated mess, tentative, urgent hands and lips. John deepens the kiss, hardly daring to believe it. Another giggle wells up in his chest, giddy disbelief, and they pull apart when it seems that breathing might be something they should think about.

The room is spinning a bit, but it doesn't feel like the Scotch. It feels like the riotous promise of something new.

They are nearly clutching each other, amusingly so: arms twined around chests, legs crammed together, as if there aren't enough points of contact in the world. They are faintly shaking, both of them; adrenaline, maybe. Arousal. Possibly, bliss.

"That's — that's a good one," John says at last, running a thumb over one sharp, newly-flushed cheekbone. "That's going on top of the list."

Sherlock grins at him, and if this is isn't what friends do, John doesn't much care anymore.

“We’re resolved, then,” Sherlock says, and pulls John in for another kiss, just as new as the first.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Resolution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699634) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [(PODFIC) Resolution by lifeonmars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713564) by [AvidReaderLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvidReaderLady/pseuds/AvidReaderLady)




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